I’ve been a long-time supporter of Turpentine Creek Wildlife Refuge and at the end of August, Brady Liger fell ill to a fungal infection. If you can donate something, anything at all, please consider supporting their efforts. Your donations can help pay for medical expenses, food, and bigger enclosures for the animals.
And here are two writerly things I’m going to try to take advantage of this September. The first is my local library’s Banned Books Writing Contest and the second is an international open call for submissions from the Black Library and the Warhammer 40K Universe.
Musings on coffee and other things from stoneronarollercoaster
Jamaica Kincaid’s Girl
“Farewell” is on my tongue by Paulus Silentarius, translated by William Roger Paton
A Play-by-Play of Queer Seduction by Marisa Crane on Chantarelle’s Notebook
The Past by Ralph Waldo Emerson
[we are] by Quentin Baker
Vesuvius by Noah Eli Gordon
Photo source: turpentinecreek.org
My reflections and I
plot the points of our knees
like stars scratched in the floor,
we can’t hold summer
in our flimsy hands.
I lean my head against the point where two mirrors join together in a museum exhibit and suddenly I am one girl split into three. This is educational. This is sacred division. I whisper softly to us but they don’t answer my prayers for rescue, escape. I can only mimic their arms with my arms and I cannot decipher the secret within our bodies.
The rough stars
I look into the mirrors and there are girls who wear my face but not my memories. I look into the mirrors, I look at us and I am so happy that at least some of us are free. When I stand they turn their backs to me and greet their secret, intangible worlds. I cannot go with them when I walk away.
This poem was first published in Atlas Poetica in 2015 and republished in my collection Lupercalia.
Photo by Serrah Galos on Unsplash
drunk on that
a little piece of
that July highway
a little relief
Found Poem: pages 45-72 of Trash by Dorothy Allison.
This poem was first published in my collection Lupercalia.
Photo by Mariana Vusiatytska on Unsplash
My poetry is about finding lost things.
If drinking makes you sick, don’t drink.
Find a clean puddle and dip your cup in that; drink the moon on the water.
My grandmother never wanted my grandfather to leave (he was an alcoholic). She had one sister who thought she was prettier than everyone else. Her grave has dead plants on it. And pink marble.
My poetry is about falling across the road as a bloody smear and making a new boundary, a new border.
My poetry is about an imaginary map.
I was born alone.
Wild roses are my favorite.
My poetry is about rotting and returning to the earth.
This post is inspired by Bhanu Kapil’s Blog
Photo by Felipe Santana on Unsplash
The wind stops.
the waves are far away.
Photo by Chris Galbraith on Unsplash
cold coffee the
THE MAJESTIC HOTEL
BURNED FOR NEARLY
Found poem. Source: The New York Times, April 2014.
This poem was first published on my old blog Chewing Wormwood and then republished in my collection Lupercalia. (I can’t believe I remembered my old blog’s name!)
Photo by Ph B on Unsplash
Praying for the wind
to dance in the leaves.
Photo by Studio Dekorasyon on Unsplash